


in loss i discovered

by tigrrmilk



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Loss of time, M/M, Memory Loss, Torture, Violence, loss of self, oh my god what do i tag this as
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 01:36:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1726400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigrrmilk/pseuds/tigrrmilk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stakes out a mark for five days without sleep. Cups water from the gutter in his hands.</p><p>He hallucinates a man, but won’t look at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in loss i discovered

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [в потерях обретённое](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7212098) by [breathinquietly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathinquietly/pseuds/breathinquietly)



> this fic contains torture, and a lot of violence. 
> 
> thank you to everyone who's let me talk at them about this - especially [morgan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Leigh/pseuds/M_Leigh), who has put up with me crying about it for basically two months now.

 

> Once, there were two of you  
>  and you each wanted to die for the other’s greater good.  
>  You fought over the other’s right to live.  
>  You respected and contradicted yourself.  
>  At the last minute of the self-destruction sequence you died  
>  and you also continued on.
> 
> -
> 
> Bianca Stone, from 'You Were Lost in the Delta Quadrant'

 

 

 

A scrape.

Breath.

32 - 5 -

Metronome.

5 - - 7 -

They’d shown him how to put pressure on a bad wound, then given him a smoke and a lit match the first time he’d had to do it for a really bad one, and he’d thrown up quietly and smoked the taste away.

But who’d given it to him?

He coughed, and felt a burr in his lungs.

He hadn’t thrown up again after that.

 

***

 

He didn’t realise he was shaking until he concussed himself on the gurney.

 

***

 

A scrape against his teeth.

No smoke, but the taste of ash and maybe blood.

 

***

 

Someone gives him something for the pain.

“Don’t expect that again,” they say, after they jab him in the neck with it.

 

***

 

Sergeant - -

 

***

 

His fingers are so cold that he can’t feel them.

He can’t feel the rest of his arm, either.

Probably an improvement.

 

***

 

He wasn’t used to the taste of tobacco then. Just asthma cigarettes, mostly. They came in a green tin, and they smelled green too. Thick with it. They weren’t his.

They’d lie on the couch cushions laid out on the floor, knees bent and arms at their sides, and when the boy next to him’s lungs stopped rattling he’d reach out and take the smoke and finish it, and rest his spare hand on the boy’s chest to make sure his heart was still going OK.

He’d throw the butt out the open window from where he lay and close his eyes, and sometimes he’d see stars, and sometimes he’d feel sick.

His dreams now, as much as he dreams, are full of the green that’s just the other side of his eyelids, so they’re not his, either.

 

***

 

“I thought you were dead.”

 

***

 

A scrape.

Screams somewhere far away.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” He doesn’t recognise the voice.

Restraints around his chest and legs.

There’s something he’s meant to say, but he can’t remember what it is.

He keeps his eyes closed, but the light gets through.

They ask again what’s the last thing he remembers, and pull up one of his eyelids to see if he’s awake.

He doesn’t recognise the language, but he knows what they’re saying. He still can’t remember what he’s supposed to say, and he can’t remember why he was supposed to say it. “I don’t know,” he says, the third time they ask him.

What is that voice.

It’s the truth, he knows, and doesn’t know if he should have told it, but he doesn’t have anything else.

Opens his eyes and doesn’t know the room.

His arm’s gone, but he knew that. He looks down at his shoulder. With his eyes closed, he could pretend that he was clenching his fist. He can’t do that anymore.

It’s a mess. There should be something there.

 

***

 

Something catches on his teeth, and rips one of them out.

It was loose before, he could feel it cut his gum as he bit.

He spits blood until he passes out.

They pull his head back with a fist of his hair and ask for his name, but he doesn’t have one of those.

 

***

 

He wakes up to three needles in his arm, and then they open his mouth and put one in there too.

Not for the pain this time.

 

***

 

They shut him in the chamber.

Braces arm against the glass, loses consciousness.

It’s not like sleep.

 

***

 

It's not like being woken up.

 

***

 

Someone throws a knife. Catches it.

Doesn’t know he’s bleeding until he sees the blood.

 

***

 

There’s a hand in his mouth. Bites it.

“Good,” someone says.

There’s a buzzing behind, can’t move his neck to see - -

 

***

 

Something tied around his eyes.

Noise. No idea what.

Loud, though.

It gets louder.

 

***

 

He’d remember dancing, but it’s too much. 

He had his hand on someone’s waist. Doesn't have that hand anymore.

There’s no beat.

Can’t make out anything.

 

***

 

“The thing is - - ”

 

***

 

They stick pins into the shoulder joint. 

He is very far away.

Along one scar a tickle.

Itch where his throat meets his ears. 

He’d sit up all night holding the other boy’s hand when his fevers were at full strength, a wet cloth pressed to his forehead.

Hears screams.

Bites through bottom lip.

Sick when too much blood is swallowed.

“Good,” someone says.

 

***

 

Back’s on fire. There’s something where a spine used to be.

The difference between the bone soaked for broth and the metal spoon you scrape the last bit out the bowl with.

The difference between cold air on the walk home and a cold chest breathing when you’re in bed. She’d throw the bone away when there was nothing else inside to get. He doesn’t remember his spine. He knows what the notches are like where the skin fits over the bone.

Doesn’t know what they feel like.

 

***

 

They flay some skin and scar tissue.

 

***

 

Next three times passes out from the pain.

Not enough between him and the air.

 

***

 

Arm where - there was - - 

An engineer leans over and helps to form a fist.

Almost tears everything open punching him in the face with it.

Fist in hair.

Scrape over tongue.

Gap in teeth.

 

***

 

Lying on his front. 

Can’t remember doing that before.

Can’t --

 

***

 

Lot of pressure on the shoulder. 

Cold under skin there. Back is a sheet of ice. It doesn’t burn, except... like that poem he had to recite once - ice is also... ice is....

 

***

 

Runs other hand down the arm, and stretches both out to compare them. It moves smoothly. It’s slightly bigger than other one. 

Scratches a fingernail down the metal, but it doesn’t scratch.

“Good,” the man watching says.

Doesn’t look up.

 

***

 

The arm scrapes against.

 

***

 

Bares teeth but lets them adjust it.

“Good,” someone says, and laughs at.

 

***

 

They restrain. 

Could break out.

Doesn’t.

 

***

 

Puts out hand to help operative up. 

Operative spits on it.

Wipes it off.

 

***

 

Beat until the flinching stops.

 

***

 

Given a meal. Can’t remember the last one.

Or the last piss, either.

Mashes at the corned beef with the side of the fork.

Chews the clumps of potato.

"How’s the arm?” a man asks.

What’s there to say?

Plastic cup with some lemonade in. Puts a finger in. It’s sticky.

Doesn’t get a refill.

 

***

 

Shown how to use the arm to electrocute someone. 

They make him shock himself, first.

 

***

 

An entry wound on the thigh. 

An exit wound the other side.

 

***

 

Prep in a room that smells of shit and smoke.

Smells of it too.

Where hair’s burnt, cut it off with a knife.

Nobody else is going to do it.

 

***

 

Short blonde hair.

Electric lights through it.

Helps her up.

Or she kicks feet out from underneath.

Eat from mess tins. They don’t talk but on the third day of training he asks, “Who won the war?”

“Which war?” she asks, in a different language.

Doesn’t have an answer.

 

***

 

“Who said the war was over?” someone says. Laughs. Bit scrapes over teeth. Pushed in far enough for gag reflex. 

He bites down.

 

***

 

No food that tastes.

 

***

 

Sometimes a taste on the air.

A smell on the tongue.

 

***

 

The speeches are addressed to someone.

“Sometimes, to build a better world, you have to tear the old one down.”

Outside, impossible to tell if this is the better world or the worse.

Has it happened yet?

The air’s different out here.

He’s not going to be around for it anyway.

 

***

 

He doesn’t remember what he. 

He doesn’t remember but he knows - he doesn’t -

People smoking on street corners.

 

***

 

“What’s the first thing you remember?”

 

***

 

Comes to when someone slaps with the back of their hand.

Grabs their wrist, breaks it.

They don’t wait to - - don’t push in the bit.

They press two sparking bars to his stomach and both eyes roll back and - -

 

***

 

Men to fight. 

Waits for them to start it, at first.

 

***

 

Words to listen out for, like looking for the right frequency and the beat goes on and gets faster:

Mission.

Mark.

Weapon.

Extraction.

Kill.

Others not quite caught. Swallowed. Noises that can’t be put together before they’re gone.

Thump. Blood through the ears.

 

***

 

A time when only getting fuzz meant “You will die on this hill” but at least he had somebody who loved him. 

Huddled together in the snow.

There’s a crack on the back of his head.

What?

They didn’t have a word for prehistory until - -

 

***

 

Guns.

He knows guns.

 

***

 

There are lots of words he doesn’t remember knowing.

 

***

 

\- - they started writing things down.

 

***

 

“I’m turning into - - it’s like a horrible - -”

 

***

 

Doesn’t dream now. Or, doesn’t remember any dreams.

 

***

 

Thoughts are almost not. 

Before they shut away.

Mote drifts in about a bed with straps.

“I thought you were -”

None of that’s real, though.

 

***

 

Someone between the mark and - and - - 

Doesn’t matter.

Goes through.

 

***

 

You can’t look back if you never took it in.

 

***

 

The mask doesn’t smell of anything. Fills lungs.

Thought there was more space than that.

Rolls across rooftops, scales buildings. 

Nobody looks up.

Steam from vents. Dirt and sweat. People.

None of. None of it’s real.

 

***

 

Doesn’t notice when the bleeding stops.

 

***

 

Stakes out a mark for five days without sleep. Cups water from the gutter in his hands. 

He hallucinates a man, but won’t look at him.

 

***

 

He staggers to the waiting car like he’s drunk.

It’s warm and there’s still steam coming up from underground.

If he really concentrates, he can smell it now.

Cover’s cover.

His brain is full of the imprint of feeling, his arm over another man’s shoulder.

He stretches out on the back seat.

Starched fabric and sweat.

Another body is his body.

Closes his eyes, presses down on them with his metal hand.

He didn’t remember, before. He doesn’t remember there being a before.

 

***

 

They’re not memories, but ghosts that find him when he doesn’t sleep. 

A man touches his cheek and he can’t stop shaking.

“I thought you were dead,” but he’s not either one.

Doesn’t think.

 

***

 

Dark out of the car window. 

Signs glow.

Don’t sleep if you don’t know what you’re waking up to.

 

***

 

_I saw a man on the roof._

It’s been a long time. Doesn’t know if he said it out loud.

They can’t take it away because he never had it.

 

***

 

“Thank you for your service.”

He remembers being kicked in the face.

 

***

 

He opens his mouth and lets them put the bit in.

 

***

 

Under the new arm there’s an old arm, sometimes. It hurts. 

No memory of it.

Can’t scratch where it itches. Can’t press fingers to the bruise.

 

***

 

An operative shaves - - young - - doesn’t know what young is. Something passes in the air, and the word goes too.

Everything is very still.

All of the parts are very still.

The last scrape over the chin, the tiniest catch - - there was a time. Like this, before.

 

***

 

Sponge bath. Shirt. Trousers. 

An operative does the buttons up.

It’s - it - - air between skin and the fibres.

Lungs without a floor.

This must have been what it was like - - for, when - -

Big breath in. Blue sky inside the head. Usually forgets to think.

 

***

 

“It’s not that I want you to have to do this--”

It’s the _have_. It’s in the wrong place.

“ -- but something has to be done.”

 

***

 

Mouth twists at thoughts in words.

 

***

 

All night by the bed. Long job. No mask. 

No music ever heard, but.

Top floor dance - -

But that night all night by the bed. Holds his hand.

Watches a man drink alone.

Words that didn’t. Drinking whiskey and he’d never. It knocked.

It used to do something.

Never been so scared. After.

“I thought you were -”

So often, that.

Three days in. Don’t sleep before the job - -

A man in the stool next to him. Don’t look over.

The truth is - truth?  - - doesn’t sleep. Can’t remember.

Knows where each knife is strapped.

Knows which guns, and where.

Knows when to go out for air.

 _Got a smoke?_ at the right time. The right man on his left with a light.

Lights it. With a flick of the hand swaps it for a knife, and then.

The man in the stool - - he’s probably gone.

Something about his breathing.

 

***

 

“That’s quite a trick you’ve got there, pal.”

 

***

 

One night, back. 

Before he has words.

After.

No sleep ever. The other boy’s head on his chest.

Faint smell. He can’t -- he doesn’t know what --

Sweat builds on his shoulder, trapped.

If only he knew what he smelt like.

He knew the smell, once. Not like his own hair.

They didn’t wash it. Everybody smells of burning here.

“Soldier.” His arms by his side.

His eyes are open. Doesn’t know how he got back.

He is inside. Didn’t think he could smell, but.

It is sulfur and metal underfoot.

“Your mission is complete.”

Only raises the arm as a reflex.

Nobody thinks enough to kick it out of him.

 

***

 

A scrape. 

This is how.

 

***

 

_“Sometimes, I think you like getting punched.”_

 

***

 

When the mission is over he can sleep.

No, the other thing.

 

***

 

Quick. 

No time to --

 

***

 

“Mission completed, soldier.”

 

***

 

That word they use at the end. 

It used to mean - - -

 

***

 

Something very cold. His spine.

 

***

 

“You have to understand,” the man starts.

In restraints.

Scrape.

“As I was saying,” the man says. “I want you to understand.”

No useful words.

 

***

 

“It doesn’t matter if a few of them see you,” they say. The arm apart.

Put it together.

“You will be out quickly enough.” 

What’s a name got to do when it is only used, not owned.

What’s a handful of photos paperclipped.

The cab driver says “How d’ya like this weather we’re having?”

_Not._

Very long way back.

Hair over eyes, and the rain.

The smell of dust rises like steam.

Deep itch in the scars on his back and arm that’s not - -

Scratches against the arm that’s there.

Throat bare, shirt sticks to skin, all that water.

Nobody looks to the skies - except - - to swear at God or - - whoever’s up there now - -

Not up there for long.

Never.

 

***

 

“What’s the first thing you remember?”

Strapped to a board. Shave.

Flexes hand.

It has been a long day since the start.

There must have been something ago.

 

***

 

“Sometimes it’s good to be seen.” 

Only.

 

***

 

“What’s the first thing you remember?” 

The smell of sick.

Giddy, punches in the face. 

Don’t remember pain.

Once the hurt stops.

“Wipe him.”

Remember that.

 

***

 

“What’s the first thing you remember?”  
  
The slap on the face. 

“You have a new mission.”

That word.

 

***

 

Mark is volatile. Mask this - - too close. 

Knife to his shoulder moves.

Slash to the thigh.

Sticks in his heart.

Doesn’t think to spit.

Water builds up in the mouth like rain.

Such a dry time of year.

 

***

 

Wait for the lightning.

Pressure there that won’t break.

 

***

 

Strapped in the helicopter. 

No different to --

So loud. Hardly hear the beats.

 

***

 

“What’s the first thing you remember?” 

The kick.

 

***

 

“We only got about a ten second window... you miss that...” 

The car’s going to speed up as it hits the freeway.

Few seconds.

 

***

 

Covers their faces. 

Strap them down too.

Not like they’re going.

When they said the names.

Not more than a gutter.

Five hours until a car.

Silver logo on the side, below.

What do the shapes make. Silver on black.

Metal underneath? Scratched through.

What would he do for a cigarette?

That’s a thing. That’s a -

Metal circle.

Bastard never had a light.

Motes.

 

***

 

More?

 

***

 

A scrape.

This is what.

When spoken to.

 

***

 

Impossible to get the thread through the eye. 

The softest part of the head is - -

What is two days. Rattle.

What a screen was. Then a screen. Somebody pushes a curtain.

Try not to stray to the wrong side of town.

Brown rice on a tray. Sugar in the cup.

The doors from here.

 

***

 

Slap. Snap. Hit for hit. 

Nobody else here.

Flooring cracked underfoot. Curtains drawn. Boiled potatoes. Brown flowers. The nets with holes between the holes. But that was another.

Skin of soup on the bottom of the bowl. Dried water in the bottom of the sink.

Can water dry.

Half as much blood.

We don’t have that much time.

 

***

 

Whiskey on the breath. 

A fare for the toll. A toll for a fair.

It was a summer’s day - -

Now that affair’s dealt with.

Rolled up tobacco. Driver’s window.

“You’ll like it upstate. Better air, y’know.”

A boy who had never been in a car.

Cab radio, a word for an ear.

Too close to the microphone.

Songs beneath.

Nobody wants anything but this - -

Barrel in the back of the thigh.

Shirt with checks in.

It’s not history.

 

***

 

“Destroy the files.” 

Hands either side of the face.

“Who knows what the Soviets have, but we won’t keep any of it at our end.”

Eyes colour of a barrel.

Wrong. Don’t know that colour.

Brass forgets to shine.

“It’s best if none of this is recorded.”

 

***

 

“What did they do to you.” 

What did you - -

 

***

 

There was a very large country across the river. 

There was a river in New York.

There was a sea in Europe.

There was a body.

There wasn’t time.

 

***

 

Not from the start. 

No time to prep again.

_When all this is over, I'm sticking with you._

Who said. Hand on the chin.

Backhand to cheek.

“What’s the first thing you remember.”

Back of the hand.

Smoke for fingers.

_You’re not getting rid of me that easily._

When all of this is over.

He’s due to leave town today.

“Did you say his briefcase was blue?”

“Let’s get this started before he breaks down again.”

 

***

 

Man and a woman.

She is not important. 

Forgot the colour. It is so. Just the brown, later. Is it later. Red. Is that what becomes. Red’s after life. What’s the opposite. It degrades. When it’s bright. The reddest lips. Blood in teeth.

Something came out the other side.

The colour of the centre of his eye.

 

***

 

Whirring.

 

***

 

“His body wasn’t made for this.” 

A certain curl in the hair.

“He should have been wiped.”

A cough for a lip.

Lightning in the air. Strapped to a hospital bed.

He won’t come back so easily from that shot, poor bastard.

“I don’t anticipate that he will be needed again. Haven’t you heard? A new age is dawning.”

Ice falls into the glass.

“Shouldn’t we -” 

“It can wait.”

Hands to himself. Looks down. Puckered at knuckles. A scratch. Something scraped the skin.

“History won’t remember us, but we will.” The man smooths down his suit. A crack in his skin. “None of you forget that we fought for this day. We made this world, and it needed us to.”

A sip. His throat. What water looks like when there’s enough in one.

Or is it any under a sky.

The smell that isn’t. Not water but clear. The way through. 

What does it look like.

“We’ve saved everybody, and they’ll never know it.”

Clinks. The men with straight backs. The men without. Glasses. Lots of glass. No cracks.

“Never forget that what the record says is wrong for a reason.”

The colour is.

Nobody tells him what to look at.

The colour of his eyes is blue.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

Fist in his shirt. Plane over water. Never so much. _Aren’t you gonna ask her to marry you._

“You can’t get rid of me, pal. Not that easy.”

Dried fish and powdered egg.

Wake me when the war’s over.

It wasn’t going to end like this.

 

***

 

Arms up. 

They didn’t bother beating that out.

 

***

 

What’s a year?

“I thought you were dead.”

Again.

 

***

 

Who knows where words come from. 

Not that face. His. Unbroken teeth in his mouth.

Enough. It was enough.

A body is most of itself.

Who can ever get it all back.

There is only one colour.

This moment is always black.

Lightning at night.

 

***

 

Long, long way back.

 

***

 

“The parameters have changed.”

Face smashed into plate glass.

Face thrown into water.

“Give him the rehydration salts first.”

Salt-water taffy. Saved for day’s vacation.

Hands on throat.

“You have to make him swallow.”

Brushes loose hair away.

“It’s been a while.”

Gushes.

Dirt in rainwater.

“We have one last mission.”

 

***

 

A car is a body.

Only one of the bodies. Only one can. Only one smashed through. See where the arm attaches. Let it. Keep this one. There is glass inside. Don’t. No fists through. The smell of oil.

Everything inside will hurt.

 

***

 

Violin in the union band. Song from the war. 

Not him, another.

Words known before words. The letters of each note.

The other side of the door.

Voices are for other songs.

 

***

 

One of the bodies.

The one he doesn’t shoot.

Waits for him to turn around.

There it is.

 

***

 

No, he does shoot it.

 

***

 

“I thought you were dead.”

 

***

 

_When all this is over, Steve, we’re gonna go back home and I’m gonna sleep for a year and then we’re never fightin’ anyone else’s war again._

“Bucky.”

_Yeah, well, it’s either that or I die in this one._

“Don’t say that.”

Hands on his chest. He said. He put his hands there too.

“Don’t you ever say anything like that again, you hear me.”

So cold underfoot. Mouths. Warm and wet like an infection.

Don’t say that, what’s wrong with you.

_I was tryin’ to be romantic._

Screams. This time. Where are they. They sound different.

Coughs up blood.

“Jesus fucking Christ make sure he drinks the whole thing.”

Tore out a lung.

Yeah, yeah.

 

***

 

You thought it would end but it never does.

 

***

 

He strikes a match against the wall.

Not so easy to get a smoke now.

Was there anything left of the lung.

 

***

 

What about when they stop.

What about when they stop writing.

When they used to keep a record.

What does it say.

Never spoke that language.

“What’s the first thing you remember?”

Gasps. Hand to his chest. _I don’t._

Blond. That was a colour.

The light reflects. Off metal. Blond. Too pale. Wheat.

“No, no. I just. I want to. Do you know my name?”

 

***

 

Letters kept in the tobacco tin.

 

***

 

“He doesn’t know which of his memories are real.”

Bucky.

“He’ll have to really want it.”

A hand. Pictures on a wall.

“Usually, with this kind of trauma...”

One day, a long lifetime ago, a boy said to another boy.

A man with a pen behind his ear.

“But you’ll write?”

_I was never much good at that, Steve._

“Sir. I’m not sure -”

Very deep breaths. Three in a row. It’s still light outside.

The kind of breathing that mimics sleep.

“History won’t remember us, but we will.”

His spoon scrapes against the bottom of the bowl.

“There’s more of that, if you’re still hungry.”

Two men to a bed. _You were always so cold before. Felt like it was my job to warm you up._

“Yeah, well you’re still pretty hot too.”

An instrumental. Is this - his hand in his hand. His other hand. His other hand.

He pulls away. He doesn’t.

“Bucky,” he says. “Buck, I’ve got so much to tell you.”

Rosemary in the potato. It feels warm on his tongue.

It was a very long time ago.

A scrape. Tongue against his teeth. His head on his shoulder. Can’t turn to look but. He’s got. He’s always had. Even when he changed. The bluest eyes. _Why don’t you. Why don’t you start._

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> well, if you made it to the end of that - thank you! come and say hi on [tumblr](http://alwaysalreadyangry.tumblr.com/) (and feel free to send me any questions about this there).
> 
> this is kind of a sequel, in spirit rather than anything else, to [we share our mother's health](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1440859). if you made it through this, you might like that. it's... marginally less horrifying, but it's still not happy.
> 
> i have written a couple of things that are set after (well, during, but right... at the end) this for tumblr. you can find those [here](http://alwaysalreadyangry.tumblr.com/post/87496565437/iron-man-meets-winter-soldier-for-the-first-time-with) and [here](http://alwaysalreadyangry.tumblr.com/post/87436062872/sam-bucky-friendship-while-steve-was-in-hospital-they).
> 
> title is from the song _ii_ from perfect pussy's EP 'i have lost all desire for feeling'.


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